Overprotective
by Kasorin
Summary: Fiona is injured while meeting one of her clients. Michael, as overprotective as ever decides to find the client and make them regret their actions.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

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><p>I pushed hair out of my eyes and shifted my weight to the other foot. For nearly half an hour I had been waiting on the damn street corner for him to show up. When I had called, Michael hadn't sounded surprised. He knew I was out on a job, that I hadn't taken my car to the meeting. Sam had dropped me off, a couple blocks away. It had given me time to think as I had approached the man who had set the whole thing up. And without my car, it didn't give him a way to follow me back to my apartment, or Michael's loft.<p>

In spite of what Michael often rebuked me for, I did try to keep my work separated from my personal life. I had learned that lesson the hard way, with him. And it wasn't like I had clients spending days in my mum's guest bedroom, or on my couch like he did. He, of all people needed a lesson on how to separate his work from his personal life. But, for him, his work was his life.

I glared at a passerby and pressed my hand tighter against my side. My sweater was trapped between my skin and my hand; its once perfectly white material ruined by blood. No one had called the police to report an angry looking woman leaking blood standing on the corner yet. But three people had already stopped to ask if I was alright.

The Charger pulled up and I tried not to visibly sigh with relief. Carefully, I opened the passenger door and slid in, still holding the sweater tight against my side.

"Fiona…" Michael started.

"You kept me waiting, Michael." I let a hint of a whine creep into my voice. "Do you realize how many people stared at me?"

"If you didn't have your sweater pressed to your side, I'm sure people…" Michael pulled into an ally and slammed on the breaks. "Why did you have your sweater held against your side?"

I shrugged and brushed my hair back from my face again, knowing that he'd be getting a full view of my swollen eye. It worked. Michael cursed and started the car again, pulling back onto the street.

"You said that you would be careful, Fiona."

"No. You told me too. I never agreed." I shot back, wincing when the seatbelt cut into my brusied ribs.

"Fi…" He sighed and let silence fall between us on the rest of the ride back to the loft.

If I had known he would have taken a half hour to get to me, I would have walked. And have been there earlier.

As Michael locked the metal doors behind the car, I made my way carefully up the stairs, hoping I wasn't dripping blood. Sam, as usual, was at the counter drinking a beer. He looked up when I entered.

"Jesus, Fi. What happened to your eye?"

"I ran into someone's fist with it." I snapped.

Behind me, Michael took a breath. He had noticed I was bleeding.

"Fi…" His voice cracked.

I let him pull my hand and the sweater away from my side. My gaze was locked on the workbench as he carefully eased the material of my top away from my torso. His investigation into the extent to my injuries ended in curses.

"Fiona, how did this-"

"Black eye, a cracked rib or two, and a knife. He didn't manage to actually stab me. And you should see what happened to him." I tried to smile and meet his eyes, but failed on both counts.

Michael forced me to lie on my uninjured side on his bed. It didn't take much effort; I was tired of acting like nothing hurt. The slash on my ribs was stinging now that it had been fully exposed to the air. And to the disinfectant that he was pouring over the wound. Sam had apparently found the first aid supplies.

I took the stick that Michael handed to me, fingering the teeth marks as he carefully unwrapped a suture needle from its packaging. This time, I knew the stitches would hurt. The skin on my side had always been more sensitive than my legs and arms, and he hadn't bothered to try and make me take and painkillers before deciding he'd use his field medicine skills.

Not that the medication would have had much time to work before he would have been forced to start the suture process. I knew he had already calculated how long it had been since I had been slashed, and how much blood I had probably lost. A pint at the very least, and I guessed it was closer towards a full litre. Anymore, and I'd need a blood transfusion for sure. I probably should have had by that point anyway.

I bit down onto the stick as Michael slid the suture needle into my side. Sam at some point had come to hold my right arm above my head, giving Michael full access to my right side for the sutures. I made a mental note to kick both of their asses as soon as Michael was done, and the room stopped spinning. Sam, for touching me without asking me first, and Michael for telling him to. And for being a bloody gorilla with the sutures. A monkey could sew better than him with its feet.

Though since monkeys had feet that were just like their hands, opposable thumbs and all, so it wouldn't be a difficult task for them.

Michael would demand the full story the moment he was done and had finished cleaning up after the first aid session. It wasn't that I didn't mind telling him about my jobs, at least when they went well. When they went badly, I still felt like I could, on occasion. When they went badly, and I wound up having to get my side sewn back together, he would become overprotective. A thing I only hated on the principle that I didn't like to ever think of myself as the damsel in distress. I had worked too hard, and too long to want to have that title applied.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

A/N: I suppose I should mention that I have set the story to happen sometime during the season five timeline (and yes, I know as of these first few chapters it hasn't premiered yet) – so Michael is back from his 'trip' at the end of season four. The next chapter is from Michael's point of view.

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><p>Sam actually managed to surprise me when he came over to hold Fiona's arm out of my way. I kept my face a blank mask and my eyes away from his as I worked on the sutures, well aware of Fiona twitching with each stitch. Part of me wished that I had thought to drug her before working on her side, though the more reasonable side of my brain argued that she had already lost too much blood. She wasn't even protesting around the stick I had given her, though I could tell that she was clenching her jaw on it as tight as she could.<p>

"Michael, I'm sorry." Sam said.

"Sam." I levered my voice into a warning, not sure that I wanted to know what he was apologizing for. "Sorry for what?"

"Fi asked me to drive her to the meeting. Well, a couple of blocks away. She insisted on going in alone, that she didn't need any back up. Not from me at least. She kind of hinted that if you weren't so busy with your new friends, she would have gotten you to take her."

I kept silent. Sam knew as well as I did that Fiona didn't exactly approve of my new 'friends'. Yes, they did work for the CIA, one of the organizations I had once worked for, but that didn't exactly mean I wanted to work with them. Even after my forced trip to DC I still was just as burned as ever, just with friends in the CIA who wanted to talk to me.

"Anyway," Sam continued, "I followed her on foot. I waited until after she had gone a block, so I don't think that she noticed me following. She went into a bar, and I followed her in there."

"Sam." I sighed.

A bar. Of course. Even if Fiona's meeting hadn't been in the bar, I knew she would at least slip into it in order to lose Sam. She never acted like she saw people following her, but I knew from experience that she always knew. The one time I had thought I might have gotten away with following her, back in Dublin before we had officially met, she had shot at me.

"I was sure that she had gone in. I waited for a minute outside, but I didn't see her sneaking out any windows or into the alley. So I went in. Apparently, that minute was enough because she was gone. There weren't many people in there. I even sat by the front windows to see if she was sneaking off or something."

"How many beers did you have?"

Fiona, I noticed had gone still, unconscious from the pain. She was in worse shape than I had thought. I muttered a curse.

"Beers?" Sam asked innocently. "Michael, I don't know what you're talking about.

"How many, Sam?" I finished stitching the wound in Fiona's side shut and tied off the end of the suture thread.

"Two. Maybe three. And a mojito or two."

I sighed and covered the angry red line down Fiona's side with bandages. As gently as I could, I pulled off her shoes and jeans before tucking her underneath the covers. Sam followed me into the kitchen area of the loft where I washed my hands and packed back up the first aid supplies.

"I was only in there for about an hour Mikey, but I didn't see any sign of Fi. I went back to the car – she had expressly told me that she'd call if and when she needed me to pick her up. So I came back here and helped myself to another beer. Then you came in, with her and..." Sam picked up his forgotten beer and stared at it. "Mikey, I swear, if I had known that this was going to happen to her, I would never have let her go in there alone."

"I know." I sank down into my favourite green chair by the bed and sighed.

"I'm going to go back to that bar. Maybe see if I can scare up the security camera footage. If not from that building, then from one of the surrounding ones so I can see if she left out the back with anyone."

"Thanks Sam." I said quietly.

I could have asked my CIA contacts in Miami for help. But I didn't want them in on this matter. Fiona hated me working with them more than she had hated me working with Vaughn. More than she had hated me even trying to get back into the spy game in the first place. Which, of the three, my getting back in seemed to have bothered her the least. Though, since it was Fiona...

I sighed and rose to get a package of frozen peas from the ice box. Wrapping it in a towel, I crossed the room back to the bed and perched carefully by Fiona's side. She shifted slightly in her sleep, mumbling something in Gaelic as I eased the makeshift icepack against her eye. Moving slowly so I wouldn't wake her, I bent to kiss her forehead before moving back to my green chair to watch her sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network

A/N: Just thought that I should mention that I changed the story layout (the former chapter one and two are now combined into chapter one, and the new chapter two is completely new) - I'm not sure how good the website is about notifying the people who've added this to their story alerts about the changing. We're back in Fiona's POV.

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><p>I woke up with my face feeling cold. Without bothering to open my eyes, I lifted a hand to my face and found something damp and squishy. I shot upright, sending whatever it was into my lap and sucked in a breath.<p>

For a sleep filled moment, I had forgotten what had happened. Now there was a melting bag of frozen peas in my lap, coming out of its towel wrapping. With a sigh, I wriggled my feet out from under the covers and noticed that Michael had removed my jeans. At least, I hoped it was Michael. I doubted that Sam would do something like that, but just the thought was more than enough.

Ever so carefully, I rose to my feet and slipped past Michael into the kitchen. He had fallen asleep in his favourite chair, the one he had fixed with duct tape after some agent from one of the alphabet soup organizations had slashed it open looking for a file Michael had crafted to get him off his back. And to get a copy of his burn notice.

I stuck the peas back into the ice box and made my way to the set of drawers Michael kept his clothes in to pull out a shirt. Just the little bit I had to twist my arm to get the shirt on hurt. I added my shoulder to the list of injuries I had neglected to tell Michael, though I was sure he had already memorized the size and shape of every bruise my meeting had left me with.

Leaving the shirt unbuttoned sure that the effort it would take to button it would be entirely too annoying; I sat back on the edge of the bed and studied Michael's face. It was a little surprising that he hadn't woken when I had gotten up. He usually was hyper aware of his surrounds even when sleeping. Except for when he was unconscious or in a coma.

Yet he was still asleep.

I grinned and kicked the chair. Michael twitched as the chair fell over and rolled to his feet, his hand reaching for a gun I knew he didn't have on him. It took him a full thirty seconds to realize that I had been the one to make the chair fall over.

"Fi." He said, groggy and obviously frustrated.

"Morning. Or is it morning? I didn't bother to look out the windows."

Michael blinked, opened his mouth to say something and apparently decided otherwise. He sat down next to me on the bed and flipped open his cell phone. I peaked over his shoulder at the time. 3am.

"Yes. It's morning Fi." He still sounded a little bit groggy. "How are you feeling?"

I shrugged my uninjured shoulder, which only pulled at my stitches. Michael's hand was instantly on my arm, his other hand reaching around me before I had even finished cringing.

"Aside from getting attacked by a psycho with a knife?" I asked, trying to be as nonchalant about the whole incident as possible.

"And his friends. I saw the bruises Fi, and from the timeline, the bruises were just beginning to show up. What happened?"

"What did Sam tell you?" I had heard the sounds of their voices as Michael had worked his monkey-level first aid.

"That you had a job, refused back up and he followed you to a bar. Where he lost sight of you, though he stayed for an hour."

"So the bastard did follow me." I said thoughtfully.

"Fi."

There was no distracting Michael from finding out information that he wanted. I knew that I could punch him, engage him in physical combat, and that would work for a few minutes. He would more likely than not instantly pin me to the bed to keep me from ripping my stitches out, and my side hurt entirely too much already.

I could kiss him. See if that would distract him from finding out what he wanted. Though it hadn't worked reliably in the past, even when we were dating.

"I had a meeting. I thought that it was a ligitiment business deal. The guy brought some friends – apparently he knows someone I shot once. Or did he say that his sister's boyfriend had been the one I shot?" I continued, not giving him enough time to speculate about me shooting someone, again. "Anyway, he and his friends ganged up on me. There were four of them Michael."

He tensed beside me. I rested one hand on his leg and reached back to the arm that was still around my waist.

"They punched me. A lot. Then the guy I had a meeting with brought out a knife. All he got out was one slash that actually connected. I think the fact that he actually drew blood scared him. They all ran away. It took me a couple minutes to get back into my feet and get to where they had thrown my purse before I called you. Took about five more to get to the intersection where I told you to meet me. I almost waked back to the loft."

"With a bloody gash in your side?" His voice was low and dark with anger.

"I didn't want to wait. Every person that passed me was someone who would have called the cops. Or an ambulance. I hate hospitals, Michael."

My dad had died in one, just months before my family had made a trip to the same hospital to claim Claire's body. Aside from when Michael had wound up in the hospital after Jesse had shot him, I did the best that I could to avoid even going past them.

"I know Fi." Michael kissed the top of my head, in a surprisingly sweet, and very un-Michael sort of way. "Who were you meeting? I assume that you have their name and number."

"Michael, I..."

"Fiona, don't tell me that you don't want me to help you with this Fiona. Those guys could have, and I'm certain that if something hadn't scared them would have, killed you."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

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><p>"Well, yeah. They had at least one knife, Michael. I think he missed stabbing me where he was actually aiming." I leaned my cheek on his shoulder, doing my best to act like my side wasn't throbbing.<p>

"Fiona..." Michael sighed. "How is your side?"

He turned me to face him and pushed back the fabric of the shirt I was wearing to peer at the bandages. I took that moment to examine his face without him catching me. His jaw was clenched, and he had that cute wrinkle in his brow he always got when he was worried. Michael stood and crossed to the workbench where he paused a moment to extract the first aid kit.

Michael got a glass of water from the kitchen sink before returning to my side. I looked at the bottle of pills he handed me critically. His prescription, from when Jesse had shot him. As much as it had annoyed me that he wasn't taking his medicine at the time; as worried as I had been for him, I was a little glad that he had left most of the pills in the bottle.

With the line of work we did together, there were times when a little crushed up pain medication or sedative would make manipulating a target easier. I preferred more painful methods like knives, but Michael could usually convince me that doing things the less painful way would be better in the long run. Not that he had neighbours to hear the screams.

I took one of the pills and held as still as I could as Michael peeled away my bandages and pressed new ones against my sides. The bleeding had apparently stopped, for the most part, though I was still oozing a little. Ooze that Michael was probably worried would turn into some sort of infection. He sat back down after putting the medical supplies back away. At some point after he had given me stitches, he had changed into a pair of sweatpants and a soft grey tee-shirt.

Tee-shirts could be more difficult to rip off. Button-down shirts were fairly easy – they had all sorts of weak places, and since they were nearly all made by machines the buttons weren't secured that well. All it would take would be one good pull on either side of the collar...

Michael forced me to lie down, curling up next to me. I turned towards him and rested my head on his shoulder. At least for now, he had given up on trying to get me to tell him who it was that I had met with earlier. Who it was that had attacked me. He would just get all overprotective once he knew, and maybe go kill them. I wanted to kill them for myself.

"Fi..."

"Michael, I'm sure you got Sam to try and find the security footage from that bar, if there is any. Or any of the surrounding footage from the back entrances of the businesses that line that alley. He'll be able to use his police or FBI buddies, or someone to find out the names of the guys." I yawned and ran my hand down his arm. "Stop worrying. I'm fine. There's nothing you can do until tomorrow."

"And all they did other than the thing with the knife was punch you?"

"You're being too persistent." I complained. "They dislocated my shoulder too." I added and quickly rolled over before he could react to bury my face in the pillow.

From behind me, I could hear Michael take a breath as if to fuss at me for not telling him. He released it in a low groan and rolled over himself to rest a hand against my shoulder. I wasn't fooling him with the pretending to be trying to get to sleep routine, but he didn't push. Maybe he had finally realized that I didn't want to talk about it. All I wanted to do was forget that the whole embarrassment had happened by shooting the people who had caused it.

...

I knew it was morning. There were stupid birds chirping outside even though there weren't trees that close to Michael's loft. Pigeons, probably. At least they weren't as thick in Miami as they had been in New York and Belfast. Though one of my brothers had once told me that the pigeons were even worse in London than in Belfast.

Michael was pressed against me. His arm had become my pillow at some point in the night, and his other hand was resting against my shoulder, the thumb rubbing rhythmically. He had to be awake, I decided. Normally when I woke before him and we were in a similar position, his arm was draped over my side. This time, it was as if he was taking extra care to not touch my side for fear of hurting me or something.

Overprotective fool. A little pressure against my wound wouldn't send me into spasms of pain. Though I was particularly enjoying the shoulder rub. Until a key turned in the lock on the door.

"You gave _Sam_ a key?"

"Mornin' Fi. Yes, I gave him a key." Michael didn't move.

"Hey, Mikey!" Sam called out loudly.

I felt Michael flinch.

"Yeah Sam?" He asked and eased his way up.

"She still sleeping? Man, she must be exhausted."

"How could anyone sleep," I demanded, sitting up, "through all that noise you are making?"

"It's almost nine, Fi. Shouldn't you be up and plotting the demise of the people who attacked you yesterday?"

I threw a pillow at him. Michael and I had been cuddling. Even though he had been officially back in Miami for a few days now, after everything that happened in Venezuela, there hadn't been much time to enjoy just being together. His stupid CIA contacts were keeping him busy, and Sam and I out of the loop.

"I just thought that you and Mikey would like to see the photos I pulled from the bar's surveillance cams." Sam held up the manila folder he had been holding.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

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><p>I stayed on the bed long enough to do up half the buttons on Michael's shirt before joining him and Sam at the counter in the kitchen. Michael had already pulled a yogurt from the fridge, and I contemplated getting my own for a minute. Stealing his seemed to be much more fun, so I slid between him and the counter and plucked the container from his hands.<p>

"Fi, you could have gotten your own. I didn't realize getting stabbed made you that crippled." Sam informed me, setting the folder down.

I stuck my tongue out childishly and took a bite from Michael's yogurt. He had already grabbed a new container from the fridge and was standing next to me, looking at the one in my hands.

"That was my last blueberry one, Fi."

"Then go to the store." I shrugged and took another bite. "What did you find Sam?"

He opened the folder with a flourish and pointed to the picture on top. "Is that your creepy knife guy?"

I peered at the picture. Obviously the bar hadn't spent much money on their security system. It was almost impossible to tell that it was actually a face that was in the picture, let alone if it was one of the men with whom I had that encounter.

"Sure, I blew the picture up a bit. Here's the less zoomed in one." He flipped the top picture over.

I could just make out a figure with long hair talking to one of the many men seated at the bar. Glancing at the time stamp printed in the lower right hand corner, I grudgingly accepted that the figure was me. The fact that there were no other women in the entire bar when I had entered made it even more obvious that it was me. My hair looked horrible from behind.

Self consciously, I raised a hand to feel my sleep-tangled hair.

"Yeah, that's him." I poked my spoon into Michael's new yogurt and smiled when he scowled at me.

"Well, I did my best with finding shots from the alley he took you to." Sam spread the remaining handful of pictures out across the counter.

Every single one was of a bad angle. You could see my face clearly in some of them, but none gave any sort of picture of who was there with me. Until the last photo.

"Michael, that's Max! What the hell was he doing lurking in some alley?"

"I didn't even realize that he was in Miami, Fi." Michael set down his yogurt, spoon sticking out of the container.

He moved back to the bed and picked up one of his phones from the small lamp table. The annoying phone, that his stupid CIA contacts called him on whenever they wanted him to run errands for him. The one they called him on when they made him leave Miami, and leave me. Even though it hadn't rung in the few days since we had gotten back from Venezuela, I still cringed inwardly at the sight of it.

"Hey, Max. It's me. We need to talk. Now, I know you know where I live, so why don't you just come on over?" Michael paused. "No, not later. I know you are in Miami, and I have a few questions for you, regarding yesterday afternoon. Like what you were doing at 4:34." He continued, double checking the time stamp. "Great. Okay, I'll see you in a few minutes then."

"So, he didn't actually deny being in Miami?" I perched on one of the stools, which put me on the same side of the counter as Sam.

Maybe I could get in a quick beating of him before Max came by to have a little chat with Michael. It wouldn't be too difficult. Sam had always had problems with hitting girls, particularly me; though that was probably because he knew Michael wouldn't like it if he hit me, even in self defense.

"Sam, could you take Fiona to her place so she can get some clothes?"

"Aw, but Mikey, she has that blood thirsty look on her face?"

"What look?" I demanded, glaring at Sam.

"The one that makes me think that I'm about three seconds away from your fist connecting with my skull. Is this about following you?"

I snorted. "You did a fairly horrible job of that, didn't you? No, I think you know what you did."

"If it wasn't the following you, or leaving you to deal with those guys alone – which since you told me to go home, you'd have been angry at me for doing anyway, I don't know why you're in such a fluster, sister."

"Sam, Fi, please." Michael rubbed a hand over his face. "Fi, all the cloths you have over here are dirty. Do you really want Max to see you like that? And Sam, Fi's just mad because you were keeping her from punching me while I put in her stitches yesterday."

I made a face. "You spoiled my fun, Michael."

"I already have patched up one friend in the last twenty-four hours. Please don't make it two."

With a sigh I stood and collected my shoes from where they lay discarded at the foot of the bed. Huffily, I sat down on the edge to pull them over my feet as Sam carefully stacked his precious photos back up. I led the way down the stairs and out towards Sam's car, trying to convey my annoyance with every movement.

"Hey, I didn't want you to get yourself stabbed more in the side by fighting Michael as he tried to fix you." Sam tried to explain as he pulled onto the causeway. "Besides, shouldn't you know by now that if you're more stretched out when getting stitches in a place that moves as much as your side it lessens the risk of tearing out them later?"

"So?" I replied sullenly.

Max would probably have come and gone by the time I changed and got Sam to take me back to the loft.

"So, since I did that you can kick some bad guy ass without Michael having to re-do them. Probably."

"You're going to help me take them down?" I sat up. "Will you tell Michael?"

"He'll want to know, Fi."

"And he'll insist on taking care of them himself, without help from you or me. He gets stupid when he's trying to protect me."

"Yeah, well, he is Mike. And you do bring out his overprotective streak. I would think that would make you happy, Fi, he's trying to be more… Loving." Sam sighed. "Anyway, I'll take a short cut to your place. If you get dressed as fast as you can, there is a chance I can get us back to the loft before Max leaves. I'd like to show that guy my fist. You don't just leave someone bleeding in an alley."

I smirked. This could actually be fun.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

A/N: Back in Michael's point of view for this chapter.

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><p>Sam and Fiona had only been gone for twenty minutes before there was a knock at the door. I knew that given enough of a reason, Sam would be more than happy to make the trip to Fiona's house as fast as possible. It would have been much more helpful if Max had come earlier, so he wouldn't still be there when they got back.<p>

"Michael. You wanted to see me?" Max did not look pleased.

"Sorry. Did I interrupt you in the middle of some big operation?" I asked, using my innocent voice that Fiona usually punched me for.

"As a matter of fact-"

"Because, I really would like to know what the hell happened yesterday." I cut him off. "You were in an alley, at around 4:30. There were four guys who were attacking a woman. Fiona, actually. She got hurt pretty badly. But you didn't do more than stick your nose out, did you?"

I flipped Sam's folder open to the picture of him in the alley. One of the four was already backing away from Fiona, and the other three were looking at him. It made me wonder how he had gotten their attention – if he had said something and Fiona had conveniently forgotten.

Max cursed. "Where did you get that?"

"The security footage of one of the stores that has a back entrance to that alley. For deliveries and trash clean up."

"That isn't what I meant, Michael."

"Sam followed Fi as far as the bar. He didn't think to check out the back. But after she got stabbed, he volunteered to get the security footage from the stores. I think he was up all night before he found this little gem. So, what were you doing there?"

I heard a car pull up and the metal gate bang open. Desperetly, I looked at my watch. Damn. It had taken Sam and Fiona only 25 minutes to get to her house and back, even with a costume change mixed in.

"Look. Tell me now, and I'll try to keep Fi from hurting you when she comes inside in oh, about a minute."

Max didn't answer, and sure enough the door slammed open sixty seconds later.

"Good. You're still here." Fiona sang out.

She had pulled on a pair of close fitting jeans, and a just as snug top. Her hair had been pulled back into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, probably while they were coming back on the causeway. On her feet were her favourite butt-kicking heels.

"Fi, he can't explain himself if he's unconscious."

"How about bleeding a little?" She asked, walking up slowly.

I lunged around the counter and grabbed both of her elbows before she could strike, pinning her arms to her sides. She drove the heel of her shoe into my shin, but I didn't loosen my grip. There would be a nasty bruise later.

"You know Max." Sam said, closing the door behind him. "You left Fi just lying there bleeding. Now, she's a violent pain-in-the ass sometimes, but she's Mikey's girlfriend. And my friend. No one leaves my friends hurt and in pain, not even sneaky CIA bastards like you."

I hadn't anticipated Fiona being able to get Sam onto her side that quickly. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that Fiona had given him the names of the thugs and was going to use him to get to them and shoot them before I could.

"Michael, would you please call your dogs off?" Max said.

I almost let Fi go so she could punch him for that. Half the time she didn't seem to care if people called her my Pitt Bull or Rottweiler, but when they called her that to her face, she usually wanted to punch them. Or kick them. Or otherwise cause them pain.

"I'm sure they won't hurt you if you tell us what you were doing in that alley." I said calmly.

Fiona had stopped fighting to get free. Knowing how she usually acted in these situations, I kept holding her arms. All it would take would be for me to loosen my grip just a little and she'd be across the room punching Max before I could stop her. I'd rather have her kick my ass later than to have her attack someone who I was trying to stay in the good graces of. I still wanted to have the burn noticed lifted.

"That's classified."

"Classified my ass." Fiona spat. "If you were working with those –" She added a few choice adjectives in Gaelic. "Then because they physically assaulted me that makes me involved with the classified stuff so you have to tell me. Because I don't think that your superiors would want your contacts getting the girlfriend of another contact killed by your incompetency."

"They are involved in a very tight-knit underground operation. One of them is an undercover agent and using him I was able to trick the leaders of the organization into believing that they had a spy in the organization and that I would help them find it."

"But they do have a spy. That undercover agent of yours. Did you find out why they were trying to kill me?" Fiona had stopped trying to get free for a second time.

"The leader thinks that you were involved in the death of his girlfriend's sister's boyfriend. The sister is distraught and the girlfriend is putting pressure on the leader of the organization to get revenge."

"Who was the dead guy, and when did he die?"

"Fi." I broke in, not liking where this was going.

"Havier Romeriz. Died last week."

"I was in Venezuela last week. With you and Michael." Fi was tensing again.

"Well, yes. But he doesn't know that."

"Since you're working to take them down, can I help? And does it matter if some of them happen to wind up blown to bits or full of bullets during the taking down of the organization thing?"

I dropped my forehead onto the top of Fiona's head. If Max agreed to let her help blow things up there would be no way that I could get her to not go after the guys who had attacked her. She was still injured, I didn't want her putting herself in danger when her ability to escape or to fight them off would be compromised.

"Fi…"

"Don't start, Michael. As much as I like the idea of you being overprotective, it is just plain annoying."

I sighed. There was no winning when Fiona got an idea into her head.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

A/N: Back to Fi's POV.

* * *

><p>Max agreed to see if his superiors would let us in on the operation and left to get permission and his files or some other silly spy stuff. All he needed to do was give me the real names of the people who had cornered me in the alley. Then I'd just get some C4 and find where they parked their cars. Once they got in, there would be a little problem with the transmission, and then Max wouldn't have to worry about the ring leaders of his criminal organization. Simple.<p>

And Michael had always explained that taking out the leaders was the easiest way to get a criminal organization to crumble. We had taken out enough of them with that sort of tactic over the last four years. His methods usually didn't involve cars exploding with people in it, but I knew it would be far simpler that way. Without it, you'd first have to gain the trust of the leaders, then scare them, then convince them that packing up and leaving would be the best option. Which only worked 90% of the time. Death was 100% effective.

"Fi, for the last time. We are not going to blow them up!" Michael said into his hands.

He was at the counter, his elbows propped on the surface and his face buried in his hands from frustration. I didn't care that I was the source of it. Michael hadn't let me kick Sam's ass, or Max's ass that morning and I really didn't want to kick his right then. Because I wouldn't be able to resist going to far and kissing him. Sam didn't exactly feel comfortable with the whole Michael and I sex thing. Not when he was in the room.

"Why not? It'd be easier!" I said for the tenth time.

"Because, Max needs them mostly alive. For now. And you don't know which one was his undercover. You can't kill a CIA operative even when working with another CIA operative without people getting angry at you, Fi."

"Why do you always have to use logic?" I flopped back down onto the bed and flipped open a weapons magazine.

"Because if I didn't, you'd kill everyone who made a job difficult." He said patiently.

"That would include you and Sam." I observed, looking at a shiny, new Mac10. "The simple solution is for Max to tell me which thug is his undercover, and then I can consider not blowing him up. If he was one of the ones who decided I'd make a nice punching bag."

Michael sat beside me and rested a hand against the small of my back. I hadn't even heard him get up, and usually he couldn't sneak up on me unless he was really trying. Sneaking up on him was fairly easy for me. It was fun, when I was bored. But lately I hadn't. He had been much too jumpy for me to really want to do that. I didn't know if he was going to actually pull the trigger next time.

"Fi, did you take any of that pain medication this morning?"

"No. When we got up you sent me with Sam to get us out of the loft when _Max_ was coming over. I didn't have time to take it before. Besides, they make me sleepy." I flipped the page. "Ooh, this one's pretty."

"Fi, that's an AK Draco. Don't you already have one?"

"You can never have enough guns, Michael. Besides, I sold the Dracos I had to a lovely… Friend."

"Gun dealer." Sam called from the counter where he had opened another beer.

"Your point?" I slid free from the bed and grabbed a yogurt from the kitchen.

Michael followed me and set a glass of water and the bottle of pills on the counter in front of me. The look he gave me when I turned to glare was stern. Demanding. I knew that he wouldn't stop bugging me about the medication until I took it. Idiot. As long as he kept making me take the medication, I wouldn't be able to drink either. I'd learned by watching me brothers never to mix pain killers and alcohol, if the pond scum the American's called beer could be considered alcohol.

"Well, you only sell things to gun dealers. Or buy them from them, Fi." Sam took a long pull from his beer.

"As long as we're waiting for Max to get us in on his operation, why don't you tell us the name that your contact used before he attacked you?" Michael suggested.

He had gotten so good at distracting me from yelling at Sam or from trying to attack him. Even though I now respected Sam a little, it was much more fun to taunt him. Sam knew what to say to get me riled up, or he should have considering we had spent four years working together. I was certain that he just would say things like that because he was a drunken idiot. Or because he liked getting me annoyed.

"Keith Stone." I took a bite of yogurt.

Michael and Sam stared at me.

"What?" I demanded around the yogurt.

"It's rude to talk with your mouth full."

I smacked Sam with my spoon and got a clean one from the drawer. There was no way I was going to use the other one now that it had touched him.

"Fi, Keith Stone is the name of a really cheep beer." Michael said slowly. "A really bad tasting, cheep beer. By most American standards."

I cursed. "Bloody Americans! Trickin' me with their stupid beer names. How was I suppose ta know it was a beer?"

"Fi, you're sounding like a leprechaun again." Michael said softly. "I think he saw your Interpol file and assumed that since you're Irish you wouldn't know that 'Keith Stone' is a name of a beer."

I took a slow breath. Over the last four years I had worked and worked at suppressing my accent, but when it slipped out I never realized it. With my past, it would be dangerous to let too many people know who I was. Not many people moved to Miami from Ireland. It was much more hot and humid. New York was a lot closer to the weather of my first home.

"So, that name won't help anything?" I said carefully.

"No Fi." Michael squeezed my hand. "Sorry, but I think we're going to have to rely on Max for this one."

I mumbled another curse into my yogurt.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

* * *

><p>Michael was fixing me dinner. Chicken Cordon Bleu was a dish that he had never made for me before. He had let me smash the chicken into the flat, thin pieces he needed to work with. It had been fun, imagining the faces of the creeps from the day before as I beat the chicken with the mallet. Though Michael had mentioned how he was planning on hiding the mallet from me so I wouldn't think to use it as a weapon against anyone. It wouldn't do much more than break bones, maybe puncture the skin if I used the edge with the dozens of little spikes.<p>

I had my weapons magazine out on the counter in front of me, but I wasn't really paying attention to it. Michael didn't even acknowledge that I was watching him cook out from underneath my eyelashes, if he had even noticed. He had always been a better cook than I, something that I hadn't even been bothered by until I started to take cooking classes during the second year of the whole burn notice disaster. At least now I could cook more than a handful of things without burning the food or risking poisoning the people I was cooking for.

There was a knock at the door. Michael turned to me.

"Fi, could you get that? My hands are covered in chicken, and I have to get this in the oven."

I rolled my eyes as I slid down from the stool and cracked open the steel door, gun in hand. With a disgusted sigh, I flung the door all the way open and set the gun down loudly on the workbench by the door. Leaving the 'guest' to come in himself, I strode grumpily back to the counter and returned to my magazine. Max shut the door behind him and joined me at the counter, though he didn't sit down and stayed out of range.

"My superiors aren't too happy about this, Michael." He announced.

"Happy about what? About you slipping up and almost getting a civilian killed, or about that civilian and her friends demanded to be in on the tearing apart of the organization?" Michael washed his hands, not bothering to turn around.

"The later. Mostly. Thing is, this gang had killed others. Before, and during the time that my undercover has been working with them. So, if they had succeeded in killing your girlfriend…" Max shrugged.

I contemplated throwing my magazine at his head, but settled for pretending not to listen and flipped the page. An HK-45 would be fun to shove into Mr. CIA's face. Or to shoot off some toes with. Who needed toes?

"If they had succeeded in killing Fi, trust me, the CIA wouldn't be happy with the results of what happened to the organization. This way, you can get your undercover out. Was he one of the ones from the alley yesterday?"

Max looked at me for a moment. "Yes. I believe he's the one who gave her that black eye. We'll get him out just before we take down the organization."

I fingered my bruised orbital bone gingerly. The one who had given me that bruise had only given me that bruise. It was almost as if he was hanging back. And the hit had been much lighter than all of the other ones…

"Can I shoot him? Just in the shoulder, or maybe the hand?" I studied the HK-45 compact on the facing page.

What was the point of an 8-round clip? You'd be out in seconds in a decent fire fight.

"He's CIA, Miss. Glennane."

"And he punched me. No one punches me and gets away with it. Not even my brothers."

"Do you shoot your brothers when they punch you?" Max asked in an annoyingly superior tone.

"Well, they haven't been able to lay a finger on me in over twenty years, since before I could hit a target with a gun. Besides, Mum wouldn't like it if I shot one of my brothers." I flipped the page nosily.

"Okay…" Max paused. "I can get you their names. Of the other three. You can have fun with tormenting them or whatever you want, Michael. We're ready for the operation to go down tomorrow. Here are their names, and places of residence. All that I ask is that you don't kill them until after tomorrow."

"If you plan on taking down their organization, won't they run off and hide?" I cut in, staring at a Berretta 95. "Which really won't solve any problems, will it?"

"They won't run away if you have them in… I don't know, a storage locker? There's a key and address of one that you can use in the file. Michael, are you sure you know what you are doing?" Max continued.

"Max, I'm sure." Michael said, leaning against the stove that he had just put the chicken into. "After everything happens tomorrow, can they… I don't know; take a swim in the Atlantic?"

"Just as long as it doesn't trace back to me, I don't care what you do with them." Max set the file on the counter and walked towards the door. "You'll owe the CIA another favour, Michael."

"Another?" I asked as the door swung shut. "What was that creep thinking?"

"Probably that I owe the CIA a favour because they let me help out in taking down the people who burned me." Michael sat beside me and pulled over the file.

I shut my magazine and leaned against his arm to look at the file with him. Michael wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in closer as he studied the first sheet in the file.

"So his name really is Keith Stone." I muttered, tapping the photo. "He didn't just think of some stupid beer name to try and keep from getting caught. You and Sam were wrong."

"Sorry, Fi." Michael kissed me lightly and turned back to the file.

I took a slow breath and tried to concentrate on the text of the paper his photo was attached too. My heart was thudding loudly, and all I really wanted to do was to pull Michael into another kiss. But he was going to be distracted by the file even if I managed to get him over to the bed, and if I gave him the slightest inkling that one of my cracked ribs was hurting, or that my side was throbbing like it was, he'd call a stop to it instantly. And dinner might burn.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

A/N: The one good thing about not having found a job for the summer yet is that I get to write more.

"Tomorrow's short notice." Sam's voice came through the speaker on Michael's phone. "We're grabbing them tomorrow? We don't even know if they'll be home. Mikey, give me a break."

"Sam, tomorrow is the only chance we'll have. I don't know what Max is doing, but he's doing it tomorrow. And only three of the four guys who attacked Fi will need to be grabbed. The fourth is off-limits."

"He's Max's friend." I interrupted the phone call from where I was lounging on Michael's bed.

"Sam, all I need you to do is go by their houses once or twice tonight. Check to see if anyone is home. From what I can tell, all three are single and live alone. It should be pretty obvious if they're home. And if they are, we can grab them early tomorrow, or while they sleep." Michael explained, giving me a look.

I stuck my tongue out and un-did the ribbons on my shoes that went halfway up to my knees. Michael hashed out a rough plan with Sam, promising beers the entire time and hung up.

"You never promise me beers when you ask me for help." I pointed out as he joined me on the bed.

"Yeah. You like clothes and shoes. Also…" Michael fell silent.

"We have sex." I finished for him and stood to pull off my jeans.

"Not tonight, Fi."

"Who said anything about having sex tonight?" I protested. "I don't want to sleep in my jeans. They're too snug to be comfortable all night. Do you have a shirt I can borrow to sleep in?"

Michael gave me a warning look and fetched a shirt from his dresser along with a pair of sweatpants for him. He waited until I had pulled off my shirt before insisting on cleaning the wound on my side and inspecting my bruises carefully.

"How are your ribs?" He asked, resting a warm hand against the reddish-purple blotch that covered my other side.

"A bit sore, but not as bad as some other times when I've broken ribs." I pulled on the t-shirt he had brought over for me and slid under the covers.

Michael joined me a few minutes later and reached over me to turn out the light. With a sigh, I snuggled up against him, pillowing my head on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer in against him. Gingerly, I pulled myself up and planted a kiss on his lips before settling back against him. He slid his fingers through my hair, smoothing it back from my face, and lifting strands to his lips. I smiled against him and closed my eyes.

Hours later, Michael's phone rang. He groaned and eased me off of his chest to grab it before it stopped ringing. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to still be sleeping. If it was Max, Michael wouldn't be as careful as he normally was in their phone conversations if he thought that I was asleep. That was one of the ways I had begun to piece together that he was American, not Irish.

"Sam." Michael said through a yawn.

I opened my eyes and sat up.

"Okay. And the storage facility?" He paused, listing to Sam as he reached out to cup my cheek in his hand. "Great. So, we'll grab Keith and James, and you'll go after Bob?" Michael slid off of the bed. "See you in a little while."

"Michael, the Charger doesn't have enough space in the trunk for two of those thugs." I pointed out, detangling the sheets from my ankles.

"Do you have your stun gun with you?" Michael shed his sweatpants and pulled on his usual suit.

I sighed and dressed, glad that I had thought to bring a spare shirt with me. While it didn't go quite as well with my shoes as the one I had worn the previous day, it could work. Barely.

"No, I don't have my stun gun. It wouldn't fit in my purse." Not to mention, I didn't know I'd need it, I thought, tying my shoes.

"I think I have that old camera I modified a few years ago. It will hopefully work." Michael opened drawers of the bits and pieces of stuff he kept in case he would ever need it. "Found it."

He handed me the stun-gun and a handful of cable ties. I took them, my purse and my Walther before leading the way out of Michael's loft and down to his Charger. Michael followed me to the passenger side, holding my things as I lowered myself onto the seat. Just before closing the door, Michael grabbed my wrist and cable-tied it to the door.

"Michael, what the hell do you think you're doing?" I demanded once he got behind the wheel.

"Fi, you're staying in the car. I'll get them out and to the Charger."

"Michael Westen!" I snarled, reaching into my purse.

I could have sworn that I had left a blade in the interior pocket. It was too short to cut much, but it would at least get through plastic. The blade was gone.

"Fi, please. I promised Max that I wouldn't kill them until after he calls me tonight. And, I don't want…" He paused.

"Michael, just because I have a cut on my side that is still oozy doesn't mean that I'm going to let my guard down enough to get myself killed."

"I got the cable ties on you, didn't I?"

I scowled. "What if you need back-up? They probably have goons they use as guards. And I don't think you'll be able to drag them all the way back to the Charger."

"You wouldn't have helped with the dragging Fi, even if I was letting you come."

"You are an overprotective idiot." I snarled and tossed my purse onto the floor.

I still had my gun, but shooting Michael wouldn't get me free from the door. He'd need medical attention, and the thugs we were supposed to be kidnapping together would have a chance to get away. I'd never get to torture them if they got away.

"Damn you Michael Weston."

"I'm sorry, Fi." He said simply, and pulled up alongside a run-down single story house.

"Was that an apology?" I looked sideways at him.

"erm…" Michael got out of the car and darted up the steps to the front door.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Michael came out, dragging the body of a large man behind him. He looked like he weighed more than Sam had before he had lost weight. Michael opened my door and cut the cable tie from my wrist.<p>

"Help me get him into the back seat, Fi?" He panted.

I made a show of annoyance, blowing hair out of my face with my sigh and dragged myself from the car. Michael pushed the passenger seat forward, opening a way into the back. Using some of the cable ties, I fastened the thug's feet together and hooked his meaty hands to the seatbelt hook in the ceiling. Fixing the passenger seat, I sank back down.

"Don't even think about it." I warned when Michael fingered the cable ties. "Don't worry, at the next house I'll stay with this guy."

"Yeah, I was afraid you'd say that." Michael grabbed my wrist and fastened it back to the door.

"Can't I at least break a rib or two?" I whined as Michael pulled away from the curb. "You know, a rib for a rib?"

"He's the one who broke your ribs?" Michael got a strange look on his face.

"Yes." I wiggled my trapped hand.

In the half hour that Michael had been inside the first house, I had managed to work the part of the door my wrist was strapped to loose. It didn't move much, but I was sure given another ten or fifteen minutes to play with it, I'd be able to get free. Michael, however, had noticed. When we got to the next house, he grabbed my free wrist and strapped it to the steering wheel.

"Sorry, but I don't trust you to play nice with our guest."

"What if a neighbour comes by and sees how you've tied me up?"

"At four in the morning?" Michael kissed my cheek and shoved the driver's side door shut.

I glared at his back as he ran up the steps, and the moment he disappeared inside, began to work on the door again. It was harder, with my other hand strapped halfway across the car, but it felt like it was getting looser. Finally, the piece came free, and I turned to contemplate how I was going to get my other hand free.

There was a groan from the back seat. Twisting, I reached over the seat back and slammed the piece of plastic tied to my wrist against the thug's head. The groaning stopped.

"Fi." Michael's voice called through the open window.

I turned and bit down on my lip when pain shot through my side. Michael sighed, and wrestled the other thug into the trunk, his wrists and ankles neatly bound together. Once he was secured, Michael opened my door and crouched next to me. His hand lightly touched my side. When I winced, he pulled my shirt up, peering at my bandages in the dim light cast by a street lamp at the next house down.

"I think you might have ripped out a few stitches." He said slowly.

"Well, that guy was groaning. I didn't want him waking up."

Michael cut my wrist free from the piece of the door and shoved it next to his 9mil in the glove compartment. He crossed to the other side of the car by jumped over the hood and cut my other wrist away from the steering wheel. Reving the engine, Michael peeled away from the curb, speed-dialing Sam on his headset.

"Sam, we got them. We're headed towards the storage unit now. How are things on your end?" Michael clentched his fist tigheter on the wheel. "Right. See you in a few. Get the other two chairs prepaired."

"Sam's already there?" I pressed my palm against my side.

"Yes. He only had one package to collect. Fi, I-"

"Don't apologize." I cut him off and inspected my fingers for blood. "You were just being an overprotective idiot."

"And you got hurt."

I shrugged and pressed my hand back against my side. Michael grabbed my free hand and wove his fingers through mine. He squeezed it gently and let go to work the gear shift. Now in third gear, Michael took my hand again, eyes glued to the road in front of him.

"Don't blame yourself, Michael. I was bound to rip out my stitches at some point." My side was beinging to feel a bit warm and sticky under my fingers.

"On day two?"

"If you had let me seduce you last night, I probably would have ripped them out then." I shrugged. "I'll just have to be more careful next time."

"You won't be saying that when I fix your stitches." Michael pulled off of the causeway and took a narrow street through one of Miami's more decrepit warehouse sections.

I got out of the car the moment he stopped in front of a large green storage container. Sam was waiting outside, and helped Michael to pull the guy out of the trunk. They dragged him inside, and no more than five minutes later came back to wrestle the other thug from Michael's car. This time, I followed them inside and watched in the dim glow of Sam's headlights as they strapped him to a chair.

Michael led me back out of the storage unit, and pulled my hand away from my side.

"Mikey, what did you let Fi do, roundhouse one of the guys or something?" Sam asked, looking over Michael's shoulder at my side.

"She whacked one of them on the head when he started to wake up." Michael replied, not bothering to even look at Sam. "Sam, I have to get Fi back to the loft so I can fix this. Are you okay babysitting them for a little while?"

"Will you bring food with you? I don't have much left in my cooler."

"Yes. Food and beer." Michael met Sam's eyes. "Thanks, Sam."

"No problem. Take good care of her, Mikey."

I stuck my tongue out at Sam and got back into the car. Michael turned the engine back on and took off, the Charger's wheels spitting gravel in our wake. The ride back to the loft seemed to take much longer than I would have expected from that part of town, even though I knew Michael was breaking almost every driving law that there was. Blood loss. It had been years since blood loss had made me disoriented. Between what I had lost earlier, and what was now oozing out of my side, there was probably enough to make me anemic. But not that dizzy – no, that was blood loss and not having eaten much in the previous twenty-four hours.

Michael would tell me that I needed to take better care of myself.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Networks

* * *

><p>Michael fixed the stitches in my side, and insisted that I stay at the loft while he went out to get us breakfast. I was certain that he was delivering food and booze to Sam along the way, and since it wasn't really along the way, but very far out of the way, he might just stay there for a bit and question the thugs we had locked up in the storage container. It was something that I would do.<p>

My car was down the block, where I had left it in an abandoned lot before demanding that Sam drive me to my meeting. In a way, that had worked out well. I didn't have to drive my car back to the loft while bleeding, and I didn't ruin the leather interior with blood. I was just gathering myself to make my way to the loft's door and down the stairs when my phone rang.

"Hello?" I said carefully. It wasn't a number that I recognized.

"Fiona Glenanne."

"Max." I sighed, disgusted and lowered myself into Michael's chair.

"I just wanted to see how the three of you are getting on, finding out information for me."

"Is that what Michael said we'd do?" I leaned back, trying to make the duct-tapped leather more comfortable.

"Yes. So, how is it going?"

"I don't know. Why don't you call Sam or Michael? Capturing those thugs for you made me rip out some of my stitches. I ruined another shirt, and Michael's banned me to the loft."

"Oh, I'm sure that with you could get out of there, if what is in your Interpol file is to be believed."

"You can't believe everything you read. Look at what those psycho's made Michael's file say. Do you need anything else?"

"Yes, actually. Can you let me in?"

I dragged myself out of the chair and over to the door. All of this getting up and down was making my side hurt worse, if that was possible. The painkillers Michael had given me before leaving hadn't had a chance to start working yet.

"You." I snarled, grabbing the gun Michael kept by the door.

"Please don't shoot. I come in peace." The man with Max said, holding up both hands. "Really. I'm not even armed." He turned around slowly.

"Why shouldn't I shoot you?" I lowered the gun an inch.

"I've come to apologize."

I sighed and slammed the gun down on the work bench. Leaving the two waiting behind me, I flounced to the counter and boosted myself onto the stools. The flouncing hurt much more than walking normally.

Max nudged his companion into the loft and shut the door carefully. I studied the two of them as they approached. They looked similar, just like Michael and Nate did sometimes. If they dressed alike and parted their hair the same.

"Fiona, this is Gregg. The undercover agent who helped me to get into a position to take down that organization today."

"We've been back from Venezuela for less than a week. How did you get so close to them, so fast?"

"Sorry. Classified." Max nugged Gregg.

"Miss. Glenanne, I'm sorry for giving you that black eye. Keith had decided that it was the best time to try and make you pay for killing his girlfriend's sister's boyfriend. Or whoever it was. Even though from what he told me, I was fairly certain that you weren't the killer…"

I looked at him, and wished that I had thought to get a beer before sitting down.

"Are you okay? I know they beat you pretty bad."

"I lost a lot of blood after it happened. More, from ripping out my stitches capturing them today." I said carefully.

"Listen, I'm supposed to be giving an announcement with the three that you and Michael have in custody in a little while. I can give you a lift to where you're holding them. Keith's weakness is his left knee. Old baseball injury or something."

"Fine." I agreed.

It wasn't until I had actually gotten into the car and we were halfway to the storage unit that I realized how stupid I was being. Sure, Max was there. But he was CIA. I didn't trust him any further than I could throw him on principle. Which, at that moment I wasn't sure if I'd even be able to get him off of his feet. If 'Gregg' was who he said he was, then there was a chance that I could trust him.

But I hadn't thought about the chances of Gregg and Max deciding to kill me before I had gotten into the car.

They pulled over several hundred yards from the storage unit. Max explained that he really didn't want Michael to know that he had been the one to drop me off. I planned on telling Michael the very first time that he asked. So what if that caused trouble between the pair of them?

Sam looked up as I reached the storage unit. Just like I had suspected, both his car and the Charger were sitting outside. I opened the door to the unit and stepped inside, pulling the heavy metal door shut behind me. Michael stood in the middle of the unit, his back to me. Next to him was a bright flood light shining on all three of the captives. Instantly, I recognized the one on the left as Keith. The ring leader.

Taking Gregg's suggestion into mind, I crossed the length of the unit and slammed the three-inch heel of my shoe directly into his left knee. He wailed in pain, a satisfying sound. Not to mention, it seemed to creep out the other two.

Michael, of course, spoiled the moment by grabbing my arms and towing me from the unit. He slammed the door shut behind us and glared at Sam before turning me around to face him.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, anger seeping through.

"I came to give a few bruises back to those guys."

"How did you even get here?" Michael looked behind me for a car. "Sam, did you-"

"She just walked up. I saw a car pause over there," Sam pointed in the direction I had come from. "And the next thing I know, she's walking up from there."

"Fiona. Who drove you?" Michael asked, saying each word as an individual sentence.

"What makes you think I didn't drive myself?"

"You would have driven all the way and you're car would be here."

I sighed and sat in the fold-up lawn chair that Sam had vacated. "Does it really matter, Michael? I'm here, I want to help."

"Max." Michael groaned. "He's the only one who knew we were conducting the… interviews here. And if my mom had been the driver, she would have pulled up all the way too."

I smiled. "I said I wouldn't tell."

Michael let out a frustrated sigh and crouched down in front of me. I met his exasperated and worried look calmly. There was no way that he was going to get me to leave that easily. Not even if he had to carry me to his car once the pain medications kicked in and I got sleepy. Which I already was, just a little. But I refused to give in to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

* * *

><p>I woke, stiff. The leather backseat of Sam's sedan was sticking to my cheek. Through one of the open doors, I could hear Michael and Sam arguing about something. Slowly, I unstuck my cheek and slid to the door of the car, ready to step out if I needed to.<p>

"Michael, come on. The meds you gave Fi won't last forever. We have to get something usable for Max before she wakes up and wants to start beating on them."

"We've been trying all day Sam. Our tactics aren't working."

"Yeah, well, maybe we should change them again. Anything's better than letting Fi be alone in that container with them."

"I can hear you." I called out, and stepped out of the car.

"Sleeping beauty awakens." Sam attempted a joke.

I swatted his arm, hard, as I walked up to Michael. He met my eyes camly, but stubbornly. Like Sam, he didn't think that my going in there alone was a good idea. I didn't see what their problem was. All I needed to do was to go in there, put some pressure on sensitive joints and there would be an answer.

"Fi, if you think you can get them to talk without hurting them…" Michael started.

"Pain is very motivating."

"To get the fastest answer to get the pain to stop."

"Well, Michael, why don't you come in too? You obviously have some idea of what we need. Or I can just scare them a bit so they'd be more willing to speak with you and Sam. I can do it without touching them, if you're so against violence today."

Michael's face tightened for a minute, and then he nodded slowly. "Fine. Just don't cut them, kill them, or make them unconscious. Or unable to talk."

I flashed him a smile and sashayed up to the container. Unhooking the metal beam from the outside, I slipped through and pulled it shut behind me. The thugs flinched when I flicked on the floodlight. Without waiting for them to recover from the sudden blast to their retenas, I strode up to the leader and grabbed his crotch. He howled satisfyingly.

"Bitch!" He snarled.

"Oh, are we doing the name-calling thing? Best not play with me, I know like five languages." I let go and took a step back towards the light, flipping my hair over my shoulder.

"You killed Gerald."

"Gerald. Now that is another lovely British name. What makes you think that I killed him?"

"He was a gun runner."

The other two were busy trying to seem inconspicuous so I wouldn't start grabbing them. I smiled.

"A gun runner? Well, I usually don't kill them. I didn't realize there was another gun runner operating out of Miami."

"Fort Lauderdale." He corrected.

"I hardly go up there. Especially not to kill gun runners who really aren't taking my clients. Sorry, but you must have the wrong person."

"He was strangled."

"Oh, you definitely have the wrong person. I don't strangle. Shot, maybe. Or blow up. But not strangle. That's too much effort." I grabbed the arms of the chair and leaned over him. "Now that that's taken care of, we have a little more business to take care of."

He blanched. Interesting.

"You impersonated a client. And attacked me. Now, the client thing I could maybe forgive you for. But you cut me. I had to have stitches. Now my boyfriend is being an overprotective idiot. He doesn't know I'm here, of course. Otherwise he'd have something to say about it.

"Now, those two idiots out there don't know I'm here." I let out a huge sigh. "_They_ want to talk to you. To get some sort of information. I don't care if they get their information. You won't tell if I do a little bodily harm, will you?" I gave them a toothy grin. "I think I'll start with you."

I stepped around the leaders chair and grabbed his hair.

"Where should I start? The tongue? Or maybe an ear?" I trailed my fingers down his chest. "Or maybe something a bit lower?"

"We'll talk!" He barked.

"And will you tell the truth? One of them is a human lie dector."

He nodded desperately. I let go of his hair, shoving his head forward. On my way out of the container, I flicked off the light, casting them back into darkness.

"Done already?" Sam asked incredulous as I came out.

"They're going to talk. Without lies. If they try to, just call me back in."

Michael was sitting in the lawn chair. Before he could get up, I placed myself into his lap. He looped an arm around my waist and looked over the top of my head at Sam. A minute later, I heard the container door swing shut. With a smile, I tucked myself closer in against Michael.

"What did you do, Fi?"

"Oh nothing much. The big one has a bruised knee from earlier. And he might have trouble using the little boy's room for a week or so. I pulled his hair."

"And?"

"That's it Michael. I may have threatened to certain body parts off."

"Fiona."

"I don't have a knife! So if I did threaten to cut things off, I wouldn't have been able to follow up on it!" I pulled back to look at Michael. "Max isn't going to let you let me kill them, is he?"

"No." Michael looked at his watch. "If Sam doesn't get good answers out of them in twenty minutes, Max will take them."

"Won't he take them anyway?"

"Yes. But he's not coming for thirty minutes."

"so I'll get to beat on them?"

Michael's mouth twitched. "Yes."

With a smile, I leaned back against Michael and settled for watching the container door. He ran his slowly up and down my arm. Just as the container door was opening, a black sedan pulled up alongside Michael's charger. Michael cast a glance at his watch and let go of me. I stood and turned to face the car. Max stepped out.

"Max, you're early." Michael pressed a hand against the small of my back in a silent warning.

"Well, Michael, I was so certain that you'd be successful at getting the information that I thought I'd come by early. You don't have it yet?"

"Yeah, we do." Sam came to stand with us, looking Max up and down.

"Great. The tape please."

Sam and Michael traded looks and Sam pulled a small tape recorder out of his pocket. Pausing a moment to look back at the container, he handed the recorder to Max, who smiled as he took it. Before I could protest, Michael ushered me into the Charger and got behind the wheel. He switched on the car and followed Sam back to the street.

Just as he pulled his car onto the pavement, a fireball filled the rearview mirror. I twisted around in my seat to stare at what had been a storage container just moments before.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Burn Notice and its characters belong to Matt Nix and USA Network.

A/N: Thanks for reading. This is the final installment of Overprotective.

* * *

><p>"Did you know he was going to blow up the container?" I complained as Michael pulled through the metal gates by his loft.<p>

"Is that why you were pouting all the way here?" Michael opened my door for me.

"It's a possibility."

"No, Fi. I didn't know that he had rigged the container to explode. If I had, do you think that I would have really kept them there?"

I pouted some more and opened the door to his loft. Michael followed me inside and dropped his keys onto the work table. With a sigh, he sank down into his chair. After letting him watch me pout for a minute, I sat on the bed and worked on untying the ribbons of my shoes.

"I called Max while you were sleeping."

"And?" I slipped off one shoe and turned to work on the other one.

"He… agreed to a vacation. A few days, out of Miami. Just you and me."

I looked up. "Where?"

"Costa Rica, I think. It was one of the places he mentioned he could get us. You'll need your passport no matter where he can get us. He did say that it might take a couple of weeks to get it worked out."

I smiled. "You're taking vacations now?"

"Well, since the CIA likes me again, I'm not on the no-fly list anymore." He returned my smile and moved to sit next to me on the bed, wrapping an arm around my waist.

I leaned my cheek onto his shoulder and closed my eyes. As soon as I felt Michael relax next to me, I twisted around, pinning him to the bed.

"Fi-"

"Don't start Michael." I bent over and pressed my lips to his.

Michael pulled me closer to him. Twin prickles of pain sparkled through my sides. He flipped over, so that I wasn't on top of him, and sat up. With a groan, I pushed myself up onto my elbows and glared.

"Fi, you're in pain."

"So give me some more of those stupid pain pills and shut up. You're annoying when you're overprotective."

_Annoying and hot. _I thought.

"You'll rip out your stitches again."

"Not if we're careful."

Michael gave me a frustrated look and slipped into the kitchen to get the pain medication. If taking it was how I could get him to stop worrying so much, then it did have the added benefits. Though it would take a good half hour before it would actually start working, and Michael would stubbornly refuse my advances until he was sure it was. The idiot.

I took the pill, pulled Michael back onto the bed and pressed my lips against his again. His hand slid up my back, moving me closer to towards him. Ignoring my side again, I draped an arm around his neck deepening the kiss. Michael sighed against my lips and leaned against me until we both lay on the bed, together.


End file.
